Harvey Bronlon's big limousine swung into the dark driveway, its brilliant headlights throwing a tremendous glare upon the porch of the millionaire's home. Bronlon himself stepped from the car. He was followed by Judge.
The two men entered the house. They were met by a servant, who spoke to Harvey Bronlon.
"Someone has been trying to call Mr. Traver, sir," said the flunky. "He left a number here." Bronlon passed the slip of paper to Judge, who scanned it closely. He went to the telephone and called. He spoke in quiet, terse monosyllables. Then he hung up the receiver and went into Bronlon's smoking room, where the millionaire was awaiting him.
"It's Deacon," declared Judge, in a low whisper. "Something has happened. I told him to get up here right away. He couldn't talk over the telephone."
Bronlon nodded. He rang a bell, and servant appeared.
"Did Mr. Best call me today?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"I told him to come back," declared Bronlon. "Perhaps he will call this evening. If he arrives, show him in here."
The two men sat staring at each other in silence. Bronlon was glowering; Judge was serious. They talked tensely in a low undertone. At last, Judge shrugged his shoulders.
"No use worrying until Deacon gets here," he said.
Bronlon uttered a grunt of agreement.
Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Best was announced. Deacon was ushered in. He stood solemnly until the servant had gone. Then, when Bronlon closed the door, he slipped into a chair, his usually quiet face betraying excitement.
"We're up against it, Judge!" he said. "Everything went wrong last night. That fellow you thought you killed must have come to life. He got away — and we're three men short!"
"You mean—"
"I mean that our pals are dead. Major, Ferret, and Butcher. All stretched out in the corridor." Amazement appeared upon Judge's face. It turned to fury. He rose in his chair, and clenched his fists. He looked at Bronlon. The millionaire wore the expression of a hunted man.
Judge became suddenly calm.
"Give me the details," he said to Deacon.
"I went by there last night," declared Deacon. "Everything was quiet. Today, I waited until after noon. I hadn't heard a word from Major.
"I thought he might have called you up — but I knew that you were out of town. I decided I had better take a look in the morgue — to see the body that was supposed to be in the coffin.
"I went down. The coffins were all empty. I saw a little pool of blood on the floor. Drops running to the panel in the wall. Drops going toward the stairway.
"I went into the corridor. There I found them. Butcher — I stumbled over him the first thing. Major and Ferret were at the other end of the corridor."
"What did you do?" asked Judge quietly.
"I left them there," said Deacon. "That's the best place, for the present. No one will ever find them. We can get rid of the bodies later. But how are you going to cover things up tomorrow — when they aren't at the bank?"
Judge pondered for a moment; then smiled grimly.
"Remember what I said here last night?" he questioned. "About sending my three chief men out on survey work? Well, that's gone into effect. The announcement went to the newspapers. That gives us a breathing spell, so far as the first problem is concerned."
"But what about the cash—"
Bronlon's question was an anxious gasp.
"Out tonight," said Judge firmly. "Deacon is here. He has come to examine the caskets, and to see about purchasing some additional ones. You and he go over to the storage room. I happen to go along."
"Shall we ship them out again?"
"No. It will be a transfer. It won't take us long, will it, Deacon?"
"Not a great while," replied Deacon.
"The money goes into those packing cases," said Judge quietly. "We've held them there for emergency. The truck can take the cases away early in the morning. After that — well, that has all been planned."
"All right," said Bronlon, his tone easing.
"There's just one danger," declared Judge coldly. "The Shadow is still alive. He is wise to our game. We must get him. He can't be far away."
"I think I know where he is," said Deacon quietly.
"You do?" exclaimed Judge eagerly.
"Yes," replied Deacon. "I had a hunch. You remember that the girl — Delmar's daughter — gave an interview in which she mentioned The Shadow?"
"Yes."
"I remembered that. It made me figure that if he was working with any one here in town, it would be Martha Delmar. So I drove past there today. I looked where I didn't look last night — at the sidewalks."
"You saw—"
"A splotch of blood on the sidewalk, by the corner. Like a man had stopped there, leaning against the telegraph pole. That settled it in my mind. The Shadow is at Delmar's!"
"If you could have planned some way to get him—"
"It would have been useless, Judge. Whatever he might tell, he has told already. Tonight is the time to get in there. But you can't do it — and I can't do it!"
"You're right, Deacon. It is a ticklish situation. If The Shadow is there, we'll have to get him and the girl, too. We can't kill The Shadow and leave the girl—"
He paused, puzzled. Deacon could offer no suggestion. It was Bronlon who furnished the inspiration.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. bringing his huge fist down on the table beside him. "I've got it! Vigilantes!" Judge looked at Bronlon questioningly.
"You know this region, Judge," said the millionaire. "They've done some mob lynchings in the past. Now look at the situation. Popular indignation is all against Hubert Salisbury. There's been rumors that people have planned to storm the jail and lynch him for killing Wellington. That talk died away.
"But everyone is angry at the Delmar girl, because she's stood by Salisbury. There's been talk about running her out of town. Now suppose it was known that she is shielding a man there in the house. What's the answer? Who could he be?"
"Some accomplice of Salisbury's," declared Judge. "That's what the town would think."
"Right!" exclaimed Bronlon. "If the tip got out, it wouldn't take much to start a surging mob down there especially on a Sunday night. They'd get the man; they'd carry away the girl. Maybe they would kill her, too."
"You've got it, Bronlon," said Judge. "But we can't run the risk. A mob is too uncertain — too unruly. It might ruin us."
"Not the mob I'm planning," leered Bronlon.
Understanding dawned upon the faces of Judge and Deacon. They listened with changing expressions while Bronlon unfolded his scheme.
"My man Critz," he said. "You know him — the one in charge of bringing the bonus and the pay roll. He has thirty under him, Judge, but we don't want that many. Six will be enough. Critz has his own pets, men who will do anything I tell them.
"I'll start them down tonight. Masked vigilantes. Drop in on Delmar's place, and get that fellow. Drag him out front, and shoot him. Carry away the girl. The town will go mad. All for the unknown vigilantes—"
"You've struck it right!" declared Judge approvingly. "No one will ever know. Handle it carefully, Bronlon."
The millionaire arose and lumbered heavily from the room. He came back with a grin on his face.
"I called Critz on the telephone," he said. "Told him to get up here right away — and to say nothing about it. He'll be here in ten minutes.
"You listen in the other room. Wait and hear me handle this. I'll tell Critz to get his men and tell them that this job is his own idea. He can say that the men downtown have been talking about it — that the Middletown people are yellow, and don't have the nerve.
"It will never get back to me, Judge. I won't know a thing about it, even if Critz's name is mentioned. I'm telling Critz that at the start. He will understand. But he'll have a nice sum waiting for him if he puts this over."
"Exactly," smiled Judge.
Deacon's morose face gleamed.
Bronlon's two companions arose and went into a side room where they could listen without being seen. Jake Critz, Bronlon's chief man at arms, would be here within ten minutes.
The time passed quickly. Judge and Deacon heard the conversation between Bronlon and his henchmen. Critz was a tough-faced fellow who bore the scars of battles with strikers in the hectic days of the past. He listened to his employer's instructions and growled his willing assent.
Then he was gone, off to form the squad of pretended vigilantes. Silently, Judge and Deacon shook hands with Bronlon.
"We'll start over to the storage room soon," suggested the millionaire. "We can do our work here, while Critz is doing his at Delmar's."
The three shrewd men were jubilant.
They had called The Shadow's turn. He had managed to escape before, but this time, he would have no chance. Seven hardened ruffians were on their way to attack a wounded man and a helpless girl. The man would be slain; the girl abducted.
This time it meant death to The Shadow!